


The Importance of Frivolity

by BenevolentErrancy



Series: Nature in Defiance of Nomenclature [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Canon Era, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, courtship at its clumsiest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel was grinning broadly now.  “Why so curious, young Enjolras?  Don't tell me you've had your heart stolen away by some pretty thing?”</p><p>“I would not put it like that, no,” said Enjolras stiffly.  He rather liked to think he and his “pretty thing” had a mutual and freely given relationship; he had never had the stomach for the more Romantic notions of love, he found it too often compared to things like slavery or madness, neither appealing notions to him.</p><p>“But still you're interested,” chuckled Bahorel.  “Very well, I shall impart my secrets.”  He threw an arm around Enjolras' shoulder and pulled him close so he might whisper in his ear “The trick, you see, is romance.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Clandestine Meeting Interupted

**Author's Note:**

> A little ways further into the timeline, after Enjolras and Grantaire were able to come to an understanding and begin a relationship together. For those wondering: yes I am intending to post a fic about them actually getting together at some point, I'm just not sure when.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: Advice

“This could be a peak of unrest, situated as it is between so many factories, and I know the glass-cutters are a degree from boiling, abused as they are, but the organization necessary to stoke that flame is lacking,” Bahorel said, tapping the cramped map of Paris open between himself and Enjolras.

It was nothing like the impressive, old Republic map that was hung in the Musain’s backroom but it was also considerably less likely to see them arrested. It was the sort of map an enterprising gamin might sell on the streets to tourists and that was indeed where Enjolras had obtained this one. It served its purpose though and was easy to transport. No one looked twice at two gentlemen pouring over a cheap map that crudely marked out local landmarks, except for the occasional (likewise enterprising) pickpocket that thought the young and lost might be a good target. The manner in which Bahorel’s coat strained against his shoulders was generally enough to dissuade _that_ vein of enterprise before it began though.

“Barras has a good little foothold here,” Bahorel continued. “He is a workingman, well-spoken and poorly-read but he understands his people and they rally around him. Last I spoke to them it was only a handful of fellow factory workers that had connected, but there are a couple other little groups in that area and I think if we could only give them a little nudge they might readily join forces. Medine’s group in particular – can’t be more than dozen men but Medine is as clever as they come and with his book-learning and Barras’ charisma they might have something.”

Enjolras nodded and considered the groups that Bahorel was pointing out. “Feuilly might be well-suited to this task then, particularly with Barras. From what I’ve heard he is a proud man and–”

“And wouldn’t take kindly to school children singing pretty words in his ear? No, not much,” Bahorel agreed with a crooked grin. Never mind the fact that Bahorel himself was a student, he seemed to live to be the exception to all rules. “Medine, however, I think would take delightfully to your rhetoric. If we– ah, excuse me a moment – Hello, my darling!”

“Bahorel! Where have you been? You’ve neglected me so fiercely I have had no choice but seek you out, you cruel man.”

Enjolras blinked and attempted to realign himself to the sudden change in mood. He could have nearly forgotten a world existed beyond his and Bahorel's hunched shoulders and yet a flurry of silk and skirts and feminine perfume was suddenly throwing that world wide open and it left Enjolras feeling disoriented. He couldn't help but stare as a plump, smiling woman in a startlingly bright dress swept towards them, embracing Bahorel where he sat, her skirts and hair seeming to momentarily swallowing him from sight entirely. When he resurfaced he was grinning mightily up at the woman.

“You tell me you sought me out just for that? I am truly the luckiest man in Paris!”

The woman laughed, a rich sound unlike the usual tittering giggles that Enjolras had come to expect of grisettes. That at least was rather soothing, Enjolras wasn't sure what he would have done if their discussion were interrupted by _giggling_.

The woman went on to smack Bahorel playfully with her fan. “Don't flatter yourself, we–” And yes, when Enjolras looked up he could see a couple other women lingering behind the laughing one. “–are out for a day of shopping, since you can't be bothered to see to me. I have my allowance in and I intend to replace these wretched stockings once and for all. But I appreciated the flowers you sent to me, they were lovely and brightened up my room a treat.” She gave another, sudden pearl of laughter. “And it would appear that Manon is wretchedly allergic of them, poor dear. She has been sniffling the entire afternoon, but perhaps it will dissuade her from coming by my rooms only to make off with my sweets,” she added conspiratorially. This time Bahorel, and a couple of ladies who stood a little ways behind, joined in with the laughter.

“Well, if you are buying yourself new stockings then you simply must come by mine and allow me to inspect them. I should hate to see you purchase an inferior make in a moment of carelessness,” said Bahorel sombrely, making the woman laugh and smack him with her fan once more.

“You are terrible, M. Bahorel,” she scolded. “I will see you later, darling.”

“Any time,” he said. “A pleasure, ladies,” he added, inclining his head in farewell to the other girls that had been lingering behind. Enjolras, relieved that this appeared to be wrapping up, likewise gave a farewell nod to them.

“She is a delightful girl,” Bahorel told Enjolras cheerfully as he turned back to their map. “I've been quite run off my feet these past few days and I have been neglecting her terrible. After we've figured out a rendez-vous of some sorts I shall have to put some time aside for her. Perhaps I'll pick her up some finicky little pastries. She has a great love for canelés, so perhaps that,” he mused, more to himself than Enjolras.

“Ah, that was your mistress then?” Enjolras guessed, though he found he couldn't remember her name for the life of him – he took a very passing interest in the romantic entanglements of his friends. “I don't believe I'd met her until now.”

“Had you not? My pardons then, it was horribly amiss of me not to introduce you properly. And I have no doubt those friends of her are likewise put off, it never hurts to have the acquaintance of a charming, young man, for all you seem sworn off love,” said Bahorel with a wink. Enjolras frowned at him.

“She seems quite happy though, for all you haven't been seeing her...”

Bahorel shrugged. “It's to her detriment, you can't make a man feel guilty if you laugh your way through the affair.”

“But how do you encourage her to smile so?” Enjolras found himself asking.

Bahorel was grinning broadly now. “Why so curious, young Enjolras? Don't tell me you've had your heart stolen away by some pretty thing?”

“I would not put it like that, no,” said Enjolras stiffly. He rather liked to think he and his “pretty thing” had a mutual and freely given relationship; he had never had the stomach for the more Romantic notions of love, he found it too often compared to things like slavery or madness, neither appealing notions to him.

“But still you're interested,” chuckled Bahorel. “Very well, I shall impart my secrets.”

He threw an arm around Enjolras' shoulder and pulled him close so he might whisper in his ear, for the world like they had returned to their clandestine discussions rather than the frivolous topic of love. But Enjolras found himself, while embarrassed, disinclined to pull away.

“The trick, you see, is _romance_. And not the sort that Prouvaire fawns over – I mean proper, useless romance. And before you ask, yes, it must absolutely be useless! Frivolity is the necessity of a happy union; encourage as much vapidity as possible and there will be no thoughts left to consider kicking you to the cobbles, see?” This last bit was said with a grin so Enjolras chose to take it as a joke. “Gifts work well. Pretty little things like themselves that they can coo over. Flowers, sweets, baubles. Something nice, to show you think of them even if you are sometimes too engaged to see to them directly. Something from you they can touch when you can't touch them.” This was punctuated by a meaningful wink.

And that was sufficient for Enjolras, who could feel his cheeks warming. He sat back, breaking their confidence, and pulled the map back before them.

“Now, Bahorel, about Barras...”

His mind, however, was still lingering on Bahorel's advice.

-

The Musain was slowly emptying. The meeting for the evening had formally concluded though Les Amis had a tendency to linger, reluctant to be parted from good company and good causes. Enough had left though that there was no longer much of a crowd and everyone who remained was involved in conversation, so no one paid any mind when Grantaire approached Enjolras. Though that even may have been an overly generous term. To any outside observer Grantaire was simply quitting the café for the evening and Enjolras happened to be sitting at a table between him and the door. He paused by Enjolras' side though and his fingers brushed the inside of Enjolras' wrist, making the latter shiver appreciatively at the delicate contact.

“Will I be seeing you?” asked Grantaire in a low voice. _Will I be seeing you tonight_ , was what Enjolras knew him to be asking.

He gave his head a small shake. “There is much work to be done yet.”

Grantaire gave a nod, withdrew his hand, and left the room silently, no one the wiser of the exchange; it may as well have not happened. Except that the inside of Enjolras' wrist seemed to tingle as if introduced to an electrical current and he brought his hand up to cup it. Grantaire hadn't looked sad, per se, because he understood Enjolras, understood that he would often be kept late to tend to another Mistress, his dear Patria that so needed his aid. Grantaire's expression had shown that he had expected as much, but perhaps that was what was troubling Enjolras. Grantaire hadn't looked upset, but he had looked _resigned_. And now Enjolras found himself thinking of the unadulterated delight on the face of Bahorel's mistress and Enjolras was struck by a gnawing desire to see Grantaire smile at him like that, to hear him _laugh_ like that.

Not to say Grantaire didn't smile or laugh. But he would like to see it without any tinge of sarcasm or irony. He would like to be the one to cause it.

Romance, was what Bahorel had said...

-

 


	2. A Message Delivered, A Message Misread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: Flowers

Enjolras' heart raced as he knocked on the door and struggled to keep the smile off his face. He didn't want to appear too eager or ruin the surprise too soon. As he waited for Grantaire to answer he schooled his expression and took a tighter grip of the work he was carrying, paper twisting beneath his fingers but he couldn't find it in himself to be bothered.

“Oh,” said Grantaire upon opening the door, “it's you.”

Enjolras no longer had to fight to keep an elated expression off his face; he had expected a different response. A slightly more enthusiastic one. In his mind, it may have involved kissing, and certainly involved, well, more smiles.

“Do try to contain your excitement,” Enjolras said dryly. “I'm not interrupting anything? I thought I might come and work in your company...” He gestured with the papers in his arms.

“No, no, not interrupting,” Grantaire promised, throwing the door open and allowing Enjolras entry. “I was just hoping you might be Prouvaire.”

“Why are you anticipating Jehan?” ask Enjolras as he picked his way towards Grantaire's settee, stumbling over a book as he did so. He bent down to retrieve it from the floor, a habit ingrained from so much time spent in Combeferre's company who, while a great reader, was not always a very kind master to his books. This one was titled  _Emblême des fleurs, ou Parterre de flore_ and had been well bookmarked.

“See for yourself,” said Grantaire with a note of fond exasperation as he gestured to his window. On the ledge, explaining the book if nothing else, was a vase holding an explosion of brightly colour flowers.

“Wha– You think–?” Enjolras cleared his throat. “What makes think that Jehan would send you such a thing?” he asked, a little more composed.

Grantaire laughed and gave Enjolras a companionable nudged as he walked past, returning to his desk below the window. “Oh dear, you aren't jealous, are you?” Before Enjolras could answer Grantaire laughed as if it was a great joke, and sat at the desk and began flipping through the book open on it, in which Enjolras could see illustrations of various flowers.

“See,” Grantaire explained as Enjolras made himself comfortable. “Jehan, the sweet boy, has taken it into his head that my rooms are somehow  _dour_ .” 

Enjolras gave a snort. Grantaire had two rooms, a sitting room that held a settee, an armchair, his desk, a cramped table, a washstand and a stove for heating food and staving off the chill, and a bedroom filled by a wardrobe, a collection of shelves, and a bed. They were small rooms, north facing and dim, and were made all the more cramped by the sheer amount of  _stuff_ that Grantaire kept in them. In that regard Enjolras would have to concede a little though, because for all they were, as Jehan apparently put it, dour, they were also eclectic in a way that could capture Enjolras' interest for hours. There were books crammed in every available space, one was being propped open by a ball that Enjolras assume was for tennis, a pair of wooden singlesticks were propped in one corner, and paint supplies appeared at random. From where he sat he could see a pair of shoes that Grantaire had told him were for dance on the seat of the armchair, and across one of the windows was a swathe of Orient-patterned silk that, according to Grantaire, he had been gifted from a sailor he spent a rowdy evening with. Left to his own devices in this room, a man would never grow bored.

Grantaire however seemed ignorant to both the earlier derision and the fondness it had faded into, and he continued to talk. “Anyway, so Jehan has made it his mission to bring some semblance of life, or art, or some such thing into my rooms and sends me flowers ever few weeks or so.”

_Oh_ . Letting his head flop against the settee's back Enjolras pressed his hands over his eyes. He hadn't known  _that_ .

“However, Jehan being Jehan, the arrangement of the flowers generally means _something_ but from what I can tell this is all perfect gibberish.” He gave the book open before him an irate thump. “I have been pondering over what message Jehan could possible have woven into his flowers for the past half an hour and if that isn't a perfectly ridiculous waste of a man's time, I don't know what is. I'm beginning to feel the only message to be got from them is that Jehan indulged over much in poppy.”

“...There aren't any poppies in it,” said Enjolras who felt confident in _this_ at least. If anyone was to know it was surely him.

Grantaire gave him an indulgent smile. “No, there isn't, is there?”

Staring at the flowers in the window, Enjolras deliberated a moment before admitting defeat. He really should have attached a card but he had been looking forward to coming over and seeing Grantaire surprised and excited by an anonymous bouquet – he really hadn't expected that it could be mistaken for someone else's gift. But it seemed too late to bother clearing up matters now. Instead he got up and pulled one the table's chairs over to the desk.

“So what do you think it means so far?”

“Well I'm pretty sure this one here is anemone which means...” He flipped to a page in his book that had been book-marked, showing a painting that resembled the purple flowers in the bouquet. “...'fading hope and a feeling of having been forsaken'. Perhaps this is his way of telling me I had best take him out for brunch soon before he whither away for lack of my company. But then here's a begonia which is a warning. Am I being threatened? Had I best start watching my back? Prouvaire would be an imposing figure to have turned against you, he's so quiet you'd never know he were coming until he's stabbed you in the back with a pen and has started writing a sonnet in your blood.”

Enjolras couldn't help but laugh at the image of Jehan as an assassin. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“Even worse then! Perhaps it is Jehan who's being threatened and he has sent this bouquet as a desperate plea for help! Who knows what great secrets those melancholic eyes withhold, who knows what desperate acts a soul would do to uncover them!”

Enjolras reached out and pulled one of Grantaire's flower books towards him and began flipping through the pages, trying to remember the names of the flowers that made up the bouquet. “Apparently,” he said, stopping over a picture that matched one of the frilly flowers, “carnations are flowers of the gods.  They mean divine love.”

“And worst still,” said Grantaire gravely. “He is being threatened by a god. A terrible fate for mortals, though I'm sure Jehan finds it terribly exciting and Romantic. I would suggest Apollo was so threatened by the lyrical skills of our young poet that he came down to challenge him personally, were it not that Apollo even now sits by my side. You haven't been doing dear Jehan a mischief, have you?”

“I haven't found the time,” Enjolras assured him gravely.

By the end, Enjolras left Grantaire's flat with only very little of his work actually completed but feeling very satisfied. Who would have expected that such an embarrassing mistake could have turned out so pleasantly. Still, he would have to make another attempt at romance at some later date.

-

 


	3. A Token Intercepted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: Sweets

 After the first rather spectacular failure at “romance” Enjolras was soon swept up in a whirlwind of activity and was unable to allow it much further thought. Feuilly had agreed to go speak with Barras, which had passed with more success than anyone could have hoped and had concluded with Barras agreeing to attend an ABC meeting with his closest supporters. If it all went well Enjolras was hoping that their two groups would be able to start a good rapport with each other, and that Barras' men could be encouraged to take steps beyond the occasional pub-meet. But that meant a lot of preparation on the part of Les Amis, since, as Bahorel had said, Barras was a proud man and a poor man. It was decided that the meeting he attended should be held in the Corinthe rather than the Musain, as the Corinthe didn't speak quite so heavily of the student influence in the Latin Quarter. It also meant that Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly were spending hours together, working out a speech that would stir without condescending in any way, no matter how incidentally.

In fact, Enjolras didn't think of the bouquet or of romance until one evening when he returned to his room, a distant bell tolling the second hour of a very young day after a very long night. He collapsed onto the sofa in the sitting room, half a mind to just fall asleep there, nightshirt and bed be damned, but found himself lurching back almost immediately, upsetting his balance and tipping backwards onto the floor with a crash. He dragged himself up, cursing fiercely with the little breath left in his lungs. Furious, Enjolras snatched up the book that had been left in the middle of the sofa and which had dug so painfully into his stomach when he'd flopped down onto it; he had half a mind to throw it out the window and only stopped himself because if it was Combeferre's he would never hear the end of it.

When he turned it over though, he found that it was not, in fact, Combeferre's, but nor was it his. It was a ratty book, poorly published and clearly second- if not third-hand. Its faded spine told him it was _La Ceinture magique, comédie en 1 acte, en prose._ Intrigued, Enjolras settled on the sofa and when flipped open the cover a note fell out.

_Ease yourself from your lofty heights at least briefly_

_or I fear you will wear yourself ragged from the winds_

_\-- R_

Enjolras ran a tender finger down the book's dirty cover. He had never read any of Rousseau's plays, much less his comedies, and Grantaire, on the couple times it had come up, had spurned them as entirely too much Rousseau and too little all at once, whatever he meant by that. Despite this less than lofty endorsement, Enjolras felt a thrill of anticipation; he wondered if this was a book that had spent long hours tucked in Grantaire extensive collection, if it had been well-read and loved, or if Grantaire had seen it at a book-sellers and thought of him specifically. Heaven knew Enjolras had had precious little leisure time as of late, but he felt it would do no harm to allow himself just an hour extra in the morning, to start the play and perhaps even find time for a complete breakfast. With that enticing thought, Enjolras placed to book on the desk by his bed and pulled on his nightshirt.

It was only after he had blown out his candle that he realized just how big his bed seemed all of a sudden, and how empty. It had been some time since he and Grantaire had done anything more than exchange words, often in debate, in the Musain and he felt a pang not only of guilt but of regret. He missed Grantaire, he realised, though without much surprise. Even if he saw him more days than he didn't, he missed having time to themselves, time when he was safe to be close the man without worrying about raising the scornful brows of the public. He wondered if Grantaire felt similarly, or if his penchant for finding good company and bad wine eased him of it. Even more so though, he wondered if Grantaire felt angry or bitter for the neglect he suffered at Enjolras' hands, if he ever regretted agreeing for their union.

 _Romance,_ Enjolras thought again.

-

Enjolras was an idiot, or so he told himself vehemently as he jammed a hat on his head and a purse into his pocket. Between him and Les Amis they had made the meeting with Barras an unqualified success, and yet he couldn't even remember to buy new coffee beans, as he had been telling himself to do for _days_ now. And Grantaire was meant to be here any minute.

Finally with a moment's breathing room, he had invited Grantaire to come by his rooms today to make up for all the days they hadn't the time. Enjolras had intended for Grantaire to come up and to have fresh coffee brewing, wafting sweet fumes through the apartment, and pastries ready. Enjolras was quite certain that in Bahorel's advice pastries had been included. Specifically he had mentioned canelés, but Enjolras found he couldn't remember if that had been unique to his laughing mistress or a general symbol of _romance_. Ultimately he had decided it couldn't hurt either way, and had bought some from a nearby pâtisserie and they were sitting on the table, caramelized crust glistening, warm and ready to be eaten. And yet here was Enjolras, out of coffee, and rushing off into the cold afternoon to buy some.

On his way out he mercifully came across his landlord, and requested that should Grantaire come by to please let him up, he had business to discuss with him, _merci, Monsieur._

Fifteen minutes later Enjolras was racing back down his street, a bag of coffee beans clamped in his hands, as he fiercely prayed that Grantaire was his usual, tardy self. With any luck he would be able to get into his rooms, discard his outwear, compose himself, and still have the kettle on by the time Grantaire arrived.

There was not such luck for him though, as his door was unlocked when he arrived, and once inside he found Grantaire seated at the table, a book propped open in front of him and...

and a partially eaten canelé on his plate.

Enjolras felt his face fall. He had really been looking forward to seeing Grantaire catch the smell of meal, to see the pleasure in his eyes when he saw the food and took the first bite. All thwarted because he was a hopeless, clumsy oaf when it came to romance who couldn't even be trusted to remember to buy coffee.

“Ah, Enjolras, there you are, your landlord let me up,” said Grantaire, looking up and beaming when he caught sight of Enjolras. His smile faltered though. “Oh... are you alright? Blast, you weren't saving these, were you? I just assumed they were left out to be eaten, I didn't think you'd mind...”

He was now looking guiltily down at his plate and that was even _worse_.

“No, no,” Enjolras assured him, rushing over to join him at the table. “No, I intended them for us, I'm glad you're enjoying them.”

“Well,” said Grantaire rather wryly, “ _enjoying_ might be a strong word.”

Enjolras stared at Grantaire, horrified. “What's wrong with them?” Surely Bahorel had said something about canelés being romantic. Or what if he had said they _weren't_ romantic and Enjolras had gotten it entirely wrong? Or maybe Grantaire didn't like custard, or...?

“They're not the best I've ever tasted,” Grantaire chuckled. “I mean, I would never refuse baked sugar, but honestly, have you tried them?”

“...Not yet.”

“Here you go then,” said Grantaire, proffering his spoon with a large lump of pastry balanced on it.

Enjolras leaned forward and accepted the mouthful, feeling a little foolish for not simply taking the spoon for himself but if the flush and grin spreading across Grantaire's face was anything to go by he didn't look as foolish as he felt.

The canelé, however, tasted perfectly fine to him – hot and sweet and laced with vanilla – and he said as much. Grantaire dropped the spoon with a clatter and clutched his chest, looking mortified.

“To say such a thing! And you, a southerner! You offend me as you offend your ancestors, how can you not know this Parisian slop from a proper, Bordeaux canelé?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes at the dramatics. “I have never been so far west as Bordeaux.

Grantaire gave a horried gasp and pretended to swoon in his seat. Unable to contain his laughter, Enjolras gave Grantaire's ankles a sharp kick.

“You aren't a child, sit up.”

“No, I am a delicate flower who has taken a most unsettling fright, be kind,” said Grantaire, not removing the arm he had flung across his face. “To not know the taste of proper, Bordeaux canelés, of all the wretched plights to be doomed to! My heart aches for you!” With that, the delicate flower sprung from his seat, swung around the table, and pulled Enjolras bodily from his chair. “Come, I know a café, not a twenty minute walk from here, with the best canelés you can find north of the Garonne.”

“I've only just sat down!”

“And now you must stand, really, do try to keep up, Enjolras,” said Grantaire, lacing his fingers with Enjolras' and tugging him along. Enjolras found that with the strong, rough fingers curled around his he really couldn't complain. The warmth of Grantaire's living skin was more enticing than that of any pastry.

(And truly, by the time they had reached the café, bumping shoulders and giddy from the nonsensical conversation and debate that had filled their walk, Enjolras had to admit that even if his second attempt at romance had failed this was worth the sacrifice. He would simply have to try again.)

(And these canelés were much, much better than the ones he had bought.)

-


	4. A Confrontation and Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: Baubles

After the flowers and the canelés and the continuous, repeated proof that Enjolras was not a soul meant for romance one might think he'd get use to feeling anticipation curdle in his stomach. But all those innocent mishaps felt like a very long time ago when Grantaire turned on him, face flat. Calm, but with a fury burning in his eyes, in the way his fingers twitched and fidgeted against the hem of his waistcoat.

“Did you do this?” he asked.

Enjolras had never felt so unsettled in Grantaire's presence. He was use to Grantaire's wildly modulating tones, use to his irreverence and scorn and humour and anger, sometimes all in the course of a single sentence, but not this chilled, dead thing that slid from his crooked lips like a curse.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, trying for confidence but aware that he was missing the mark. He didn't feel confident. He felt out of his depth and, at the moment, very foolish.

“Why?” Grantaire asked. His voice was still flat, but there was a note of desperation creeping into it somehow, perhaps it was Grantaire's posture, perhaps it was his brow, but something told Enjolras that he was walking a delicate line here and an error on his part may hurt more than one of them.

“I – I was _trying_ to convey a message,” Enjolras tried, and immediately realized that it was the wrong answer, though he wasn't even fully aware of what the question _was_.

“I see,” was all Grantaire said before he turned away from Enjolras towards the objects laid out on the table.

“What else would you have me do?” asked Enjolras. “What else _can_ I do, Grantaire?” And, because he was not a man who took well to feeling foolish, he added with more barb than he meant: “You mightn't have such a miserable response, you’re more the father to this situation as I.”

He saw Grantaire's shoulders stiffen at that and could only imagine the expression on his face – Fury? Scorn? – since he didn't turn around, just kept staring down at the table.

“I see. Then what I would have you do is leave, Enjolras.”

His voice broke over the name and Enjolras felt his heart plummet. Somehow this had gone very off-track.

“Grantaire,” he said, trying for gentle but aware it came out more stern.

“I would,” said Grantaire, voice rising. “I would leave if you asked me, but these are my rooms. So you'll have to be the one.”

Enjolras knew a dismissal when he heard one. With a stiff nod that Grantaire wouldn't even see, bowed as he was over that damned table and the damned paintbrushes that had been laid out on it. Enjolras pulled his hat over his hair, turned on his heels, and marched away. One would think he would be use to failure at this point, but he had hoped that his third attempt at romance would prove more success – had relied on it in fact.

A curse on Bahorel and his miserable advice.

-

A cup was placed in front of his vision with a sharp, insistent _click_. The sound of a coffee cup should not be able to convey extended messages of any sort, and yet it was something Courfeyrac was very apt at, and this particular _click_ told Enjolras that he was most likely in trouble, that there was a conversation looming, and that no matter what he did there was no escaping it. Enjolras turned to blink up at Courfeyrac, feeling cowed without the conversation even having started yet (which seemed enormously unjust).

“Talk,” was all Courfeyrac said, sitting down opposite him with his own cup of coffee.

“...Hello,” tried Enjolras.

Courfeyrac glowered, though his face was so made for sunny expressions that it came off more petulant than particularly threatening. Especially considering how much time Enjolras spent around Grantaire as of late, who had a remarkable scowl, a whole face affair with which Enjolras was able to have an entire debate.

Well, who he _had_ spent quite a bit of time around, there had been less of it lately.

“Yes, that,” said Courfeyrac, waving his hand in wild agitation at Enjolras. “Talk to me about whatever is causing _that_.”

“My face?” said Enjolras, frowning.

“Yes,” said Courfeyrac, without any hesitation. “Also, you've been chewing on the tip of your pen for the past five minutes and that never means anything good. You have us all in suspense and I shall simply perish if I need to go another day of your brooding – my constitution can't take it, never mind poor Joly's! Have some heart, allow me to ease whatever burden has your shoulders so sloped.”

Enjolras sighed in defeat.  It would be a delicate conversation to carry out with Courfeyrac but, done carefully, perhaps it would even prove insightful.  As Combeferre could better and correct Enjolras in matters of compassion and philosophy, so could Courfeyrac correct him in matters of intimacy and heart.  “It’s Grantaire,” he admitted.

Courfeyrac’s brows shot up, genuine surprise written on his face.  “What, truly?”

“Well, it should hardly be a shock,” said Enjolras, peeved.  “He was given a simple job, one he insisted he was capable of…”

“That you were angry about that isn’t what surprises me,” said Courfeyrac.  “We were all angry about that, but he has stumbled at his take off before and it has never so affected your mood.  You have been exasperated, certainly, but it has always quickly given way to indifference.  Why is now different?  Especially since no harm came up of it, Bossuet was easily able to carry the slack and everything was completed without fatal complication.”

Enjolras had to stop and mull this over.  It was true, his annoyance with Grantaire, while it might be sharp initially, rarely lasted; he knew Grantaire was a skeptic who allowed his lack of faith to muddy all his work and he had never expected much more than that.  But he had hoped now would be different.  He had hoped, he had _believed_ and Grantaire had failed him.  But it wasn’t only Grantaire’s anger that unsettled.

“I… said unkind things to him as well,” Enjolras admitted softly.

“You often do,” said Courfeyrac bluntly.  Enjolras flinched, because it was true.  “The question remains: what changed?”

“He’s angry at me.”

Courfeyrac’s brow rose again.  “Well.  That is different.  And why do you care?”

Enjolras shrugged mutely.  “I don’t know how to fix it and my previous efforts to do so were scorned.”

Now, Courfeyrac simply sighed and sat back, contemplating Enjolras as a puzzle he’d thought himself well acquainted with had just rearranged itself into an unfamiliar pattern.  “Well, then I suppose the first question you must ask yourself is if you _want_ to.  For all we fight for the equality of men, you must realize that not all personal relationships are created equal, Enjolras. Not because of the worth of the man, but rather because of the subjective meaning the relationship holds for you. So you must ask yourself what is the importance of your relationship with Grantaire, because I cannot dictate that for you.

“I won't say he didn't make a mistake and shouldn't be rebuked, because he did and should. He assured us he would do an importance task and failed us. If the one who had failed me were simply a passing acquaintance I would likely spurn the relationship – why pursue a close comradery with a man who cannot be trusted with my faith? Better to deliver my energy and love to a worthier source. But if the one who had failed me were you or Combeferre or Prouvaire or any of our friends? And yes, I do include Grantaire among them. Then they are already dear to me, already loved and trusted. And so I would see this not as a great blemish overshadowing a minor relationship, but rather a minor blemish on a great, beautiful friendship, and I would seek a happy resolution. I have, in fact, done just that. I have spoken with Grantaire, and he knows my feelings on what happened, but I have delivered him my forgiveness. We are well again, and I don't regret it because he is a good friend.

“So ask yourself Enjolras, does this mishap outweigh the importance of his friendship in your life? Or does the importance of the friendship outweigh the hurt caused by the mishap? If the former: break ties if you must, or simply accept the coolness in your acquaintanceship now. If the latter? Speak with him. Not only to forgive, but to seek his forgiveness for your own actions.”

Enjolras stared at his clasped hands, throat tight. Put that way, there was no question of what he must do. Grantaire was more important than his failure to complete a task and the residual anger felt petty.

“I… I did make some effort at, at offering forgiveness,” said Enjolras

“Oh, and he didn’t accept?  That’s odd for Grantaire, he’s not the sort to hold a grudge.  What did you say?”

“I… I didn’t say anything so much I… I left a token.  That is.  I thought… it might be better received than my words at the time.”

“A token,” said Courfeyrac flatly.  He pressed his fingers to his temples, eyes closed as if in pain.  “ _What_ token?”

Enjolras made a valiant effort not to feel rebuked.  Courfeyrac didn’t yet understand, it had been a clever move on his part, he was sure.  In line with Bahorel’s romance, it _should_ have worked, he was certain, the only problem was that it… didn’t.  What had happened was simple: they had work waiting to be collected at the printers’ and Grantaire had spoken up, mentioned an acquaintanceship with the printer of that shop from his times as a painter’s apprentice and said that if he went he might be able to get a good price for Les Amis.  So the job of retrieving the work and negotiating price had been allotted to Grantaire, with the promise that he would have the pages delivered to the Musain the next afternoon.  When noon came and passed, and evening was sneakily approaching and still Grantaire had not appeared, Bossuet had been sent to investigate.  He had found pamphlets uncollected at the printers – and paid a pretty penny for them – and on his return found Grantaire in a nearby art shop, chatting up the owner and examining the paintbrushes.  Needless to say, when Bossuet arrived with a chastised Grantaire in tow Enjolras had been livid.  To get so distracted from such a simple task!  The words he had said had been cruel, he won’t deny that now, but he also won’t deny that they were well earned.

Still, it hadn’t taken long for him to feel the ache of Grantaire’s absence, for Enjolras had been stubbornly ignoring him and Grantaire had been slinking away whenever Enjolras had come into his sight, clearly still smarting from their fight.  And so Enjolras had decided that a peace offering was what was needed, something to show that Enjolras was willing to forgive him, and had thought again of Bahorel’s advice.  You would think Enjolras would know better by now, but the suggestion of baubles, trinkets, had resonated in his mind and it had seemed… apt.  So Enjolras had gone to the offending art shop and bought several brushes, tied them as best he could manage in ribbon, and delivered them to Grantaire’s rooms.  It had seemed quite clever, really, he couldn’t understand why Grantaire was being such a stubborn _ass_ about it.

Courfeyrac groaned loudly when he heard Enjolras’ account.  “You utter ass,” he moaned.  “No wonder Grantaire has seemed so sullen lately.  What you have here, my friend, is a grave misunderstanding.  You should not have tried such a tactic, not when such an important discussion was needed, certainly not with Grantaire.  You were begging miscommunication, it would have happened with anyone.”

“I have never had this sort of miscommunication with you,” said Enjolras peevishly, though he was feeling rather foolish again.  He wanted to place the blame for this solely on Grantaire’s shoulders but it was getting rather difficult.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “We speak the same language, you, Combeferre, and I. Even in a fight, we understand the words we're speaking, and it makes mending bridges much easier. You and Grantaire, not so much.  If you don’t even understand the words being spoken, the words being left unspoken will only confuse matters worse.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras softly.  “…Oh.  That… that does make sense.  Thank you, Courfeyrac.  I think… I think I had best go speak with Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac clasped his arm.  “I am glad that that is your decision.  I’m sure it will go well; you and Grantaire have never been bad at speaking, simply at listening.  Be plain, Enjolras – I know it doesn’t come naturally for you, but try.”

“I will.  Again, thank you.”

And with that Enjolras stood, took up his hat and coat, and left to find Grantaire.


	5. A Translations Discerned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or: Romance

Finding Grantaire was never an easy endeavour, of course.  With other friends they often had certain, predictable haunts which could at least be tried before accepting that they could be anywhere in all of Paris.  Grantaire never made things that easy though; he knew a place for everything and was a regular in more places than Enjolras had ever even entered and was passingly familiar with practically everywhere else.  So Enjolras chose to simply walk to Grantaire’s rooms and stick his head in the various cafés and wineshops he passed on his way.  His luck proved good this evening though because, after not finding him in any of the shops he passed, he was greeted by his landlady and informed that last she knew Grantaire was up in his rooms.  She seemed more than happy to show Enjolras up and he wasn’t surprised by this eagerness when he entered the room and saw Grantaire slumped on the floor surrounded by bottles.  Better him handle Grantaire’s inebriation than her the potential damages afterwards.

“Thank you, madam,” he said earnestly, shutting and locking the door behind her, before sighing and going to inspect his drunken lover.

“Grantaire?” he called, tapping Grantaire’s stubbly cheek.  “Are you well?”  Of course _well_ might be overstating it a little, but if he wasn’t completely insensible or choking on his own vomit Enjolras would take it as a temporary victory.

“Mmm,” Grantaire hummed in response, blinking his eyes open.  “’Jolras,” he said, sounding stricken once his eyes managed to focus on him.  His face contorted and eyes shone – he looked like he was about to cry.

Enjolras was more use to the deep melancholy drinking could throw Grantaire into than he would like to be, but this struck deeper than usual.  There was the uncomfortable awareness that he may well be the cause of this distress.  It felt a little unjust, him being the one to soothe Grantaire before the tears could fall and help him onto his settee – he was the wronged party, was he not?  And yet Courfeyrac’s words sat heavy in him.  He had said cruel things to Grantaire and unlike before, when Grantaire had simply been a loud-mouthed drunk in the corner, Enjolras now saw the direct repercussions of his words, however well-deserved he might have believed them.

“How much have you drunk, Grantaire?” he asked, once he managed to get Grantaire’s uncooperative body of the settee.  He’d nearly been brained when one hand still clutching a partly filled bottle was flung out at a sharp angle.

“S’little.”

“Uh huh,” he said, surveying the bottles.  He wasn’t sure if he hoped some of these were from previous nights or if he desperately hoped they _weren’t_ and that Grantaire hadn’t been putting himself in this sort of state regularly.

Grantaire chose that moment to start sniffling again.  “M’sorry,” he said thickly.  “Please don’ hate me, ‘jolras.  Please.  Please don’.”

“Grantaire I don’t– I was mad.  I do not hate you.”

“M’sorry,” Grantaire said in way of response, pressing his face against Enjolras’ trouser leg.

Enjolras was about to continue, to press the matter, but then he stopped and considered.  With a sigh he took a seat and started carding a hand through Grantaire’s hair, made more wild than normal by drink and neglect.  “Courfeyrac doesn't think we speak the same language,” he said softly. “And I think I have to agree with this assessment. So we are not going to have this conversation while you're drunk. What we're going to do is you're going to release the bottle – give it to me, Grantaire, please – thank you. And you are going to go to bed. And we shall speak in the morning, when you’re sober.”

“Mmm,” Grantaire hummed, letting himself be pulled up by Enjolras once again. His head lolled against Enjolras' shoulder but he stumbled along under his guidance and collapsed into the bed. “Come,” Grantaire said, tugging at his sleeve when Enjolras turned to leave. “'Jolras, sleep with me, please. Please. Please, m’sorry, 'jolras. Please.”

He seemed so melancholy, so desperate, that Enjolras, while he couldn't comply, also couldn't help but sit on the side of Grantaire's bed. His hand returned to Grantaire's hair and he petted him until Grantaire eased against the pillow.

“I won't sleep with you while you're drunk like this,” Enjolras told him. “You may want to now, but you're angry at me, Grantaire. The last thing either of us need is for you to wake up in the morning, memory returned and fury with it, only to see me in your bed. For me to join you now would be a betrayal to you later, and I can't do that to you.”

“No’ mad,” Grantaire promised. “No’ mad, please.”

Enjolras laughed humourlessly. “Grantaire, I have never seen you so mad at me. Perhaps it's for the best. I treated you poorly. I have for a while, I've neglected you and I was aware I was doing it and yet I didn't see it as a problem because you were always there.  Perhaps this is a due comeuppance.”

“I forgive you,” said Grantaire.

“No you don't,” said Enjolras. “Or you shouldn't. I'm not sure I wholly forgive you. I'm getting there but... I'm still disappointed, Grantaire. Still hurt that you couldn't do this for me – for us. But we'll talk about it tomorrow. Because my love is greater than my anger and we can resolve this.”

“Y'love me,” Grantaire murmured. And Enjolras couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question, but the possibility of the latter chilled Enjolras.

“I do,” he said. And, hoping that Grantaire wouldn't be angry about the liberty he took in the morning, he bent down and pressed a kiss to Grantaire's cheek. “I love you Grantaire. I love you so, so much. I don't always know how to show it, and I hate that, I do; I thought... the art supplies... I'd hoped... But obviously not. But please, Grantaire, if you must doubt everything else at least know that I do love you.”

Grantaire hummed into his pillow and smiled blearily up at Enjolras. Soon after, he drifted into a drunken sleep and Enjolras finally stood and left the bedroom.

-

Grantaire woke miserable.  His mouth was as a desert and his head roared.  He groaned in an attempt to relieve the tension that filled his body but it only worsened as his ears rang and mind throbbed at the sound.  Blindly he groped by his bed but wasn’t rewarded with any bottle to help ease his _gueule de bois_ and he cursed the him of the past for not having the good sense to pass out with a drink in hand.  It could lead to stained bedclothes but that was something he would risk for the sake of relieving the agony he currently suffered.

“Grantaire…?”

With a start Grantaire jerked upright, eyes flying fully open – only to crumble again and moan at the throbbing pain that accompanied such ill-advised movement.

“What are you doing here?” he croaked.  Honestly, _what_ was Enjolras doing here?  Enjolras was furious at him, Enjolras disdained him, Enjolras – had arrived at his rooms last night and Grantaire had clung pathetically to him, ah yes, now it was coming back.  Grantaire moaned again but at an entirely different agony.

“If I’m not wanted here I will leave,” said Enjolras softly.  “Here.”

Grantaire reached out and accepted the cup that Enjolras was passing to him, only slightly disappointed to find water rather than wine.  Still, he would take anything that would help temper his head so he accepted the peace offering for what it was.

“I would prefer if we could talk though,” Enjolras continued somberly.

Finishing his water and placing the cup on floor next to his bed Grantaire considered his options.  Running away from this was tempting, but not if there was any chance of things being put right again, however slim.  So he sighed and accepted his fate.

“Allow me a couple minutes to dress and wash.”

Nodding mutely, Enjolras left the bedroom so that Grantaire, with slow, miserably motions, could corral his body into trousers and shirtsleeves.  With some consideration he finally decided to put on a waistcoat and jacket as well, because he felt he ought to be as well armoured as possible for this discussion.  He couldn’t shave ( his room was too small to allow for a washstand so it stood out in the main room where Enjolras currently was), but he did stick his head out the window and dump his water pitcher over his head.  Feeling slightly more human he exited his room, ready for a potential war.

What he got instead was Enjolras sitting meekly – or as meekly as a man like Enjolras could – on his settee, with a cup of coffee laid out for him.  It struck Grantaire then that Enjolras was familiar enough with his rooms to find and prepare coffee, and perhaps that was a small thing to fixate on but it touched something deep in Grantaire’s chest.

“Let’s talk,” said Enjolras.

-

Enjolras felt it would be wise to be upfront from the start, so as soon as Grantaire was seated next to him – a distance between them so unusually wide that felt like all of Paris could comfortably fit in it cold, empty space – he said simply, “I’ve thought about it all last night and, Grantaire, I am still upset with you.”

Grantaire flinched, nodded, but said nothing in his defense.

“I don’t intend to _stay_ upset with you,” Enjolras continued, “but I just… I can’t stop being angry at what you did.  To us.  _To me_.  I trusted you and…  What, was it all a game to you?  I know you don’t believe but is everything I do just a joke, something you can amuse yourself with and then toss aside when the mood strikes?”  He was aware that his voice was rising as his anger rekindled but he couldn’t help it – thinking about it afresh made the hurt feel new.

“I intended to do as I said, Enjolras, truly, I just… I got distracted.”

“How can you get dist–”  Enjolras physically bit his tongue to silence himself before his voice could raise anymore – already he could see Grantaire’s hackles raising in defense.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you, Grantaire.  How could you get so distracted from such a simple task?”

Grantaire shrugged, head turned away as he scowled.  “I could as easily ask how you can be so fixed on one point.  I’m not like you, Enjolras, I don’t have that sort of focus.  That’s why I once studied under Gros and now do so no longer, why I once danced but have not in months, why I’ve taken the time to learn pool and snooker and dominoes and a hundred card games in between, why I visit a dozen different wineshops and dens in a week.  It was a constant annoyance of my father, since I could hardly be incited to sit still for my tutor, especially if he had the bad taste to present me with mathematics, but then would talk circles around him with the useless trivial I had taken up from dabbling in his library.  Simply put, Enjolras: I was on my task, I saw the art shop, and it struck me that no harm could come from making the tedious task I was on more interesting with a stop.  Then I began conversing with the owner and started thinking about art like I hadn’t since Gros, and the entire thing left my mind until a certain Eagle had me in his talons, though his were still more tender than yours.”

Enjolras just shook his head.  While he could well understand not paying attention in lessons – his mind often drifted during lectures – it was entirely because his mind was ever fixed on his goal and unable to be extracted from that thought long enough to entertain law.  To be distracted from a goal by meaningless trivialities?  It was beyond him.

“I _am_ sorry, Enjolras.”  Enjolras’ gaze snapped back to Grantaire, whose head was now bowed, gaze focussed on his folded fingers.  “I meant to do you a service and I made a mess of it.  I won’t pretend your rage isn’t warranted, and so I didn’t fight it.  I accept what ill I have brought down on myself.”

Finally, something loosened inside Enjolras.  Some knot that had kept Enjolras wound up and furious was slackened by the apology he had been waiting for, the acknowledgement of guilt and, perhaps even more so, the explanation.  To know there was a reason behind Grantaire’s actions helped, even if the reason baffled Enjolras.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly.  “That is what I needed to hear.  I would have liked the job completed but – well, that time has passed.  And… and I too, am sorry.  Even in anger I should not have spoken to you the way I did.”  Enjolras worried at his lip for a moment before continuing, because it felt like everything had to be said now, that if they weren’t able to realign themselves properly now that they might never be able to.  “I should have said so earlier.  When you rejected my earlier apology I should have realized how serious the situation was.  Instead I only got angrier – bitter.”

When he looked up he realized Grantaire was staring at him with a perplexed expression.

“You didn’t apologize to me before this,” said Grantaire.  “I would have absolutely remembered if you had; to have you apologetic is a surreal experience.”

“What are you talking about?  I apologized and you kicked me out of your rooms!”

“I did no such thing!”

“ _Yes_ ,” Enjolras growled, “you _did_.  When I gave you those paintbrushes–”

“That–  Enjolras, that was not an apology!  I thought–  You were mocking me!  How is that–?”

“I wasn’t mocking you!  I thought…  You were looking at those brushes, and that was what distracted you, so I thought if I purchased them and gave them to you that that… that it would be an appropriate way to show that I was willing to forgive you.  If I was still angry why would I give you what was causing my anger?”

Grantaire gaped at him.  “Enjolras, you were furious at me, how should I know you had suddenly decided to forgive me?  I assumed that was your way of rubbing my nose in my mess – of laying bare the fruit I had foolishly bitten into and reminding me of your scorn and my carelessness.  A physical symbol of my fall, a brand to mark me with my sin.”

“You can’t… you can’t think that of me,” said Enjolras.  He sounded small to his own ears, hurt.  And he was.  Hurt and scared.  He had been angry when his apology had been refused – who was Grantaire, cause of this, to refuse _his_ forgiveness – but the idea that Grantaire hadn’t cast him out in anger but in resignation to Enjolras’ cruelty was… was horrifying.

Grantaire just shrugged, only confirming Enjolras’ fear.

Enough was enough, Enjolras decided then.  He bridged the chasm between them on the settee and pressed his face into Grantaire neck, pulling him into his arms.  If Grantaire wasn’t ready for this – well, he was sober, he could push Enjolras aside.  But Enjolras’ timidity, his desire to be romantic, vauge, rather than frank paved the road to this and he would have no more of it.  If he had to be the first to make the move, then he would, and trust Grantaire to follow his lead.

Follow Grantaire did.  He tensed for a moment, but eased quickly, turning to pull Enjolras to him.  He thought Grantaire might be crying, but he was silent and his face was turned away from Enjolras so he couldn’t know for sure. 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras said instead, because that was what was important now.

“I as well,” Grantaire said into his hair.  “God, I’m sorry, Enjolras.  I’ve been so sorry this whole time, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear it…”

They stayed like that for several more minutes, until finally they pulled back slightly, though Enjolras kept Grantaire’s hand firmly in his.

“All this time, us working at cross-purposes and working ourselves into tempers…”

Sighing, Enjolras confessed, “I should have seen this coming.  It’s as Courfeyrac said, we don’t speak the same language.  This is hardly the first time you’ve misunderstood my attempts at romance.”

Grantaire gave a snort at that.  “You?  Romantic?  Enjolras, I’m afraid I must dissuade you of this notion, you are many things but a romantic soul you are not.”

“Well I _tried_ ,” Enjolras mourned.  “I went to Bahorel for advice in how to – well, in how to keep a lover from becoming upset should I not be able to pay her – that is, he – all the attention he deserved.  And, well, he advised me on how to be romantic.  Do you remember the flowers you thought were from Prouvaire?  When we tried to decipher their meaning?”

“Yes…  Oh, no, _Enjolras_.” 

Laughter was creeping into Grantaire’s voice, and it was such a relief after the misery that Enjolras resigned to a loss of his pride and continued.  “It was me who sent them.  But I didn’t know how to tell you at that point.” 

Grantaire was laughing properly now.  “You spent the entire afternoon finding nonsense messages in your own bouquet?  You idiot.”

“And the afternoon we had canelés?  I had meant for us to have a romantic lunch together but then I forgot to buy coffee beans and you started eating them before I got home and decided they were _terrible_ …  We seem to constantly be misunderstanding each other.”

 “We’re awful,” Grantaire agreed, humour still in his voice but melancholy too.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, “we are.  But… I also think we’re getting better?”

Grantaire raised his head a little and smiled.  “Yeah.  I think we are.”  He gave a snort.  “With you at the helm, I suppose there’s no choice.”

“No,” said Enjolras, “what we do here we do together.  This is as much your doing as mine.  …Besides, you weren’t the one that couldn’t be bothered to attach a greeting card to a bouquet or prepare for a meal.”

Grantaire chuckled and pressed himself into Enjolras’ arms, burying his face against his cravat.  “For what it’s worth though, Enjolras, all those times… I did think they were romantic.  Not Bahorel’s particular sprig of it perhaps, but… for you.  For us.  I _liked_ spending time with you; I liked getting to watch you laugh over stupid flower messages; I _liked_ getting to walk to the pâtisserie with you and I _liked_ seeing your face when you tasted the first one.  …I like that we’re talking now, even if the build-up was… regrettable.  There’s a good reason it’s you I’m with, not Bahorel,” he added wryly.

“Glad to hear it.”

They sat silently next to each other for a while after that, simply basking in each other’s company, keenly missed by both even at the heat of their respective hurt and anger, and watching the flashes of Parisian life occurring outside Grantaire’s window.  More discussion would have to happen at some point, undoubtedly, but for now this was all either of them wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just so you're aware, I figured out how to reorder the series; this work would, chronologically, take place before Upset of Morning Routines. Not that it matters that much, these are more or less independent of each other.


End file.
